The Chosen One?
by islington bus no. 199
Summary: The Chosen One is sent to defeat the Dark Lord, but is he the saviour you were expecting?


DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters in this story, sadly...

"I'm a what?" yelled Macbeth for about the third time that day, "I'm where?"

"Let's go over this again," sighed Sarah. "You're a wizard and you're in England."

"Oh," said Macbeth. There was silence for a minute.

"I still don't understand."

"You have been summoned to the twenty-first century because, had you been trained, you could have been the most powerful wizard ever seen!" said Sarah. "We've been over this already."

"But I still don't see why you need _me_," whined Macbeth, "_and_ I have a headache."

"You've been dead for nearly a thousand years," said Sarah, "I'm not surprised you have a headache."

Macbeth gave her a blank look.

"Never mind. Anyway, we need you to defeat Lord Voldemort," Sarah continued, "He has taken over as headmaster of Hogwarts and killed both Dumbledore and Harry Potter."

"Who?"

"No one, just a couple of guys who might have saved the world had they not been killed."

A few hours later Macbeth finally understood his task: train as a wizard and defeat Lord Voldemort. Sarah sighed in relief as she apparated him off to the home of her friend, Mary, where Macbeth would begin his training.

He spent the next six weeks at Mary's house learning the basics of wizarding, such as holding the wand, and gradually working up to more complicated manoeuvres like transfiguring tables into boulders that you could throw at people.

A few weeks later Macbeth was almost ready. Well, sort of…

"Macbeth," screamed Mary, "You've been learning for a solid three months, all day _every_ day and you're still holding your wand backwards!"

"Sorry," said the once great Macbeth meekly.

"You'd better be," growled Mary. "Let's go over this. You hold the wand _this _way, good, and you point it _that _way. No, not at me! Right, now you say the killing spell. Do you remember it?

"Um, Abra–"

"No!" screamed Mary again, her voice was getting sore, "NO NO NO!"

Macbeth looked down at the ground sadly.

"I could use my sword––" he began.

"No way!" said Mary, "You're a wizard now, you've got to do it right."

Macbeth sighed again and thought about his wife. Mary was a bit like her, really. They were both very persuasive women and they both wanted him to kill someone. What was it with women and killing kings and lords?

He put these thought out of his mind and went back to practicing for the task ahead. Idly, he wondered if he would survive _this _battle and if dying the second time was any easier.

A few days later Mary had had enough.

"You're ready," she told Macbeth.

"Really?" he asked hopefully.

"No, but I'm sick of teaching you and I've missed a lot of TV thanks to you. The instructions on how to get to Hogwarts are on my desk. I'll see you later if you kill Voldemort. Bye."

Macbeth sighed again and went to find the instructions.

The instructions told him that there was a school train leaving from London that would take him to the school, so that's where he headed. When he arrived he ran through a brick wall, something he thought he was quite good at, and found himself on a train station. He found the time table soon enough, but found that only one train left the station each year, on the first of September.

"Great," he muttered to himself, looking at the train-tracks heading off toward the horizon.

He set off along the train tracks, preparing mentally for a long walk.

An hour later he was completely bored so he sang a few marching songs and swung his sword around a bit to cheer himself up. He missed not having killed anyone in a while. Now he was finally getting the chance to kill someone again but he had to use a stupid piece of wood.

He began to get bored again and started to think about his task.

Macbeth had the feeling that he oughtn't be killing this Voldemort person; he thought he might have learnt a lesson in the past about killing rulers but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

While on that train of thought he began thinking about his old friend Banquo.

"I wonder what became of him," he thought to himself before remembering that he'd killed him.

"Oops," he thought guiltily.

At that moment the air shimmered in front of him and the ghost of Banquo appeared.

"What do you want?" asked Macbeth, cowering behind a nearby railway sleeper.

"Bones," whispered Banquo.

"Don't you mean blood?" asked Macbeth.

"I know what I mean," snapped the ghost, "I haven't had a decent meal since a couple of days before I died. Didn't you wonder why I appeared at your Banquet? You did invite me you know, you told me I couldn't miss it."

"Right," said Macbeth, "Well, I don't have any bones, but I have a ham sandwich that Mary gave me if you want it."

Banquo grabbed the sandwich from Macbeth and ate it hungrily.

"Thanks," he said, vanishing without a pop or shimmer.

Macbeth stood still, thinking for a while before continuing his walk along the tracks.

A while later he arrived.

Macbeth looked up at Hogwarts in awe; it looked so similar to his old castle it was scary. He wiped a nostalgic tear from his eye and continued on up to the castle. As he banged on the front door a swallow's nest fell out of the cracks in the stone above and landed on his head.

"I swear I remember that happening before," he thought vaguely before putting it out of his mind and going through the door.

He walked into the atrium of Hogwarts and looked around. It really did look like his old castle.

Eventually he remembered that he was supposed to be looking for Voldemort. Macbeth walked carefully up the grand staircase, looking for the headmaster's office. He wasn't sure where to find it, but his fears were laid to rest when he saw, at the highest point of the staircase, a tackily decorated and gilded door with 'Headmaster' written on it in imposing black letters.

Settling his stomach with one hand, Macbeth proceeded up the staircase to the said door.

When he reached the door his nerves began playing up again, but calmed down after he reminded them that he was invincible.

"No man of woman born can kill me," he reminded himself.

With that, he swung open the door and stepped inside the overly decorated headmaster's room.

"Hello?" he called out.

"Hello," muttered a sly and evil voice, "I've been expecting you, Master Macbeth."

Macbeth tried to puzzle out how he had been expected when he had been dead until a few months ago, but eventually he had to give up.

"Ready to fight?" he asked Lord Voldemort, drawing his wand.

"Quite," replied the dark lord, stepping out from behind a dramatically placed curtain at the back of the room.

Macbeth gasped at the apparent ugliness and evilness of the dark lord and prepared to fight.

The two lords circled each other, wands out, trying to find a vantage point. After a few minutes Voldemort lunged out at Macbeth.

"Ow, my eye!" glared Macbeth, rubbing the eye Voldemort had inadvertently poked with his wand.

"Sorry," said Voldemort.

Rain began to fall outside the tower as the two men continued to circle each other. There was a sudden flash of lightning which distracted Voldemort for a mere second. Macbeth took the opportunity to aim his wand at the dark lord's throat.

"Are you going to kill me?" asked Voldemort.

"I am," replied Macbeth.

He prepared to say the magical killing spell, but in all the excitement he had forgotten the words again!

Voldemort quickly jumped up and the prancing began again.

Macbeth suddenly tired of all the circling and drew his sword, severing the head from Voldemort's body in one practiced sweep.

"Mary won't be too happy," he said to himself.

With that, he stood victoriously inside the tallest tower in the Hogwarts school, basking in the glory he would have received, had anyone known what he had done.

Then the guilt arrived.

Suddenly, lightning struck the tower causing Macbeth to trip over the prostrate body of Voldemort and fall in guilty spirals out of the tower window. He landed with a splash in the lake below just as the giant squid – obviously not of woman born – came up out of the depths and swallowed Macbeth whole, Voldemort's blood still on his hands.

"Will he ever learn?" wondered a passing psychoanalyst.

And with that, the dark lord was conquered and balance was restored to the natural order.

_Thanks for reading, I know it's not the best story ever, but I would appreciate it if you could review and let me know what you thought. Thanks!_


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